I used to think I was a ghost, and that no one knew me, but I am as transparent as the air you breathe. I don’t care about making it big anymore. Now I just want something, anything, to make sense. Maybe some day I will know my purpose, and when that day comes, I just hope I’m still sane enough to help.

Saturday, January 31, 2009

The school workload can get heavy pretty quickly. Thursday I had two essays due, and an early morning test, all in one day. Things are pretty quiet now, though, so I figure I better make an entry while I still potentially have one or two readers left.

Update #1: Against my better judgment, I tried talking to Nurse Betty again, to see if she was still mad at me. She was, and now I’m on her block list. Apparently she actually did bother to read my last blog entry about her. I asked her what was so unforgivable about what I did, and her reply was merely “I’m annoyed now.” And then she blocked me on facebook, too. Of course, I’m smart enough to find my way around that. She’s only blocking one identity, but I’m also smart enough to realize there’s really no point. The bottom line is that she’s made a decision about me, and he mind is set. Everything I say to her, whether its an apology, or an argument, or even just hello, is annoying to her now. The thing that bothers me is, that I still like her. I’m not even sure why anymore. In all likelihood, I will probably forget her, eventually.

Update #2: I got rejected from the JET Programme. I can’t really say how I feel about that either. I think part of me didn’t feel ready to go anyway. Another part of me feels like I’m never going to have a job, and never move out of my parents’ house, and never have a girlfriend, and never have a life, etc, etc. Then eventually, hopefully, I’ll keel over and die. If I’m lucky.

There was a job fair on Wednesday at my university, so I drifted from booth to booth. There was two other companies for teaching English overseas. They actually sounded like better deals than JET. There were also some civil service jobs, apparently. I’m not really sure I buy it, because invariably they tell you to apply through the various government websites, which essentially means they can electronically receive thousands of applications without ever have to check them. Fuckers.

Update #3: The strike is finally over. Well, I suppose not officially – the busses don’t run again for another ten days. Essentially what happened is this; since neither the city nor the asshole union were willing to make any kind of concession, the federal government threatened to pass a legislation forcing the drivers back to work. You could just about see the moment the drivers wet their pants as they realized everything was slipping through their fingers, so they basically begged the city to let all outstanding issues go into arbitration. To be fair, the city was more than happy to oblige.

It’s left a pretty bad taste in everyone’s mouth. This is something they could have thought of much earlier. In fact it was suggested numerous times that they go into arbitration. Now people will wonder why they felt it necessary to deprive the entire city of public transportation for more than two months. People will be bitching, insulting, yelling, spitting, assaulting, and occasionally pissing on bus drivers now. And they know it.

“But we have the right to strike,” they say, “and it’s our union rep’s job to get us the best deal he can.”

“You shouldn’t have the right to strike,” I say to them. “Look at the damage you caused. I know that, as servants of the public, you have no interest whatsoever in public service. That’s why I’m going to put it in terms you care about. I know you don’t care about the thousands of people who lost their jobs over your stupid, petty, childish, and frankly pointless concerns. But here’s what affects you: If you didn’t have the right to strike, you wouldn’t have lost two months of wages, your busses wouldn’t be seizing up on you from time-to-time, the city wouldn’t hate you, and probably most notably, you wouldn’t be soaked in my urine.”

Then, before he has time to react, I whip out my super-soaker, and spray him with the two month-old urine I’ve been saving for him. I spray him at point blank. The pressure from the blast pushes him against the far window. He chokes as a little bit of the spray infiltrates his mouth and nose.

“I forgive you!” I shout, giggling and running away into the snowy hills.

Friday, January 23, 2009

So, after Japanese class today, and after the usual breakfunch (breakfast, lunch, exactly), gorge-a-thon with my favorite classmates, I figured my hair was getting kinda ratty, so I went to the barber to tell him I was sick of looking like a hobo.

The guy ahead of me, was a Francophone bus driver. Now, those readers that live in my city know all about the strike, and are probably pretty sick of talking about it by now. Personally, I avoid talking about it when I can. But for those of you who live elsewhere: Our city bus drivers have been on strike for 45 days now. It’s freezing cold, the roads are all ice, and many people have actually lost their jobs to the transit strike. When it’s -25 degrees Celsius, walking outside for two hours each way simply isn’t an option. Many have taken to carpooling, and for some, this is not an option either.

The barber, let’s call him “Lieutenant Dan,” and the bus driver, whom I’ll call “the bus driver,” were talking about how awful people are going to be to the drivers when they finally get back to work. So I piped up and suggested there may not be so many people riding anyway. At this point, the damage has sort of been done. Even Lieutenant Dan had to move to keep his barber job, which is good, because he’s awesome. But that’s another story. Dan was careful early on to point out that I was indeed talking to a bus driver, one of his regulars.

The bus driver was complaining that they only get 6 sick days. So I asked him how much vacation time they got to start. Three weeks, he said. To start. After eight years, you get four weeks. And I just thought, you whiner you. I’m no expert, but most people I know working in the government get two weeks. My dad only get two weeks, and he’s a senior lawyer. I didn’t say anything to the bus driver, and by my tone, I don’t even think he knew what I was getting at. Lieutenant Dan did. After the bus driver left, he told me he only got two weeks, and he couldn’t even take both weeks at once.

It occurred to me, while I sat there listening to the driver complain, before he left that is, that he really couldn’t put himself in anyone else’s shoes. Like all the other bus drivers I’ve heard speak about it, he had no concept that he already had way more privileges than almost any other civil servant I know of. (And in this city, civil servants top the list.) They get more vacation time already, better wages, better benefits, they make their own schedules, (though that one’s up for debate in the strike too), and their job is basically to drive in a circle all day. That’s it. I’ve had fun conversations with some of them, joked with some of them, and apparently Scarlet says one of them was singing Italian Opera for the whole ride. Really, it doesn’t look like a bad job at all.

They chose to strike during Christmas, even though we’re in a recession. So, no only is it insane to ask for more money, but they actually crippled the local economy. Most of the shop lost all of their bus-going customers, which is basically half the city, to people (like myself) who couldn’t be bothered and bought from a place that delivers. (Amazon in my case.) Half of my classmates have simply not shown up to class this term, which is really hurting their marks. There are 2,300 bus drivers in this city, but easily 500,000, probably more who have been left out in the cold. Look at the size difference between those numbers, and tell me the decision to strike during Christmas and the coldest winter months isn’t completely morally corrupt.

There is a debate going on right now as to whether they should be allowed to strike at all, or if like nurses or firefighters, their service be deemed “an essential service,” and they be ordered back to work immediately. Their concerns would then instead be taken to court by a representative for arbitration. I think it would be better for everyone, personally. We’d have our busses back, and they’d be able to collect their fat paycheques again.

Monday, January 19, 2009

Sometimes when you have nothing to say, it’s the best time say it. I’ve been thinking for a long time. Too long.

“I’m sorry your girlfriend left you. I know how you feel man, and the best thing for you right now is to know that you’re a tall handsome stud, and if I were a chick, I’d bang ya.”

“I’m offended that you threw away your granola bar today, rather than eating it. Why would you suspect I would do something unhygienic to it? This is the thanks I get for guarding your stuff while you’re gone? I may make fun, but I would never do that. Especially not to a girl like you, who won me over last year with her bright pretty eyes, and your perfect bangs.”

“Stop telling me to bundle up. I’m 29 years old, and I know how to take care of myself. I may lie to you on occasion, but only because you force me to, with lines like ‘I won’t take no for an answer.’ You complain too much. But I love you.”

“You need to talk to me. I know I said I was so mad I didn’t want to talk to you, but really, though I myself wanted to believe, I think it was a lie. Anyway, you started it. Maybe you’re still mad at me. But I can’t stand the void that’s growing between us. Maybe you think it’s better that way. I know now that you never liked me in that way, but still, I wonder why we can’t still speak as friends.”

“Sometimes you think I hate you. I don’t, but you irritate the hell out of me. You don’t learn. Mom tells me that I should be more patient with you – that you never had children of your own, but really wanted them. Well, that’s sort of a non-sequitur isn’t it? Being a spinster is no reason not to play nice. But I think I understand. I can admit that, at this point, most of my hostility towards you is a Pavlovian reaction, knowing in advance that you’ll annoy me. I’m sorry that we don’t get along, just not sorry enough to fix it.”

“I’m sorry I broke up with you. Maybe some day you’ll come to know just how sorry I am.”

“The reason I lost all respect for you is not that you immediately insulted my last girlfriend, building up an unnecessary wall of resentment, with me in the middle. Nor is it that you took advantage of the girlfriend before that; because really, let’s face it; she was making herself available, and she’s probably the best you’ll ever get. I’m not even mad about the cat. What I really can’t stand about you, is this belligerent attitude you have about idealist politics. Or idealist economics. Or idealist whatever. You read one editorial, and suddenly you act like you’re an expert, when in truth, you’re just a surrogate for some other opinionated asshole. And you get away with it too, because most people don’t know what you’re talking about, nor do they know from where in the hell you get your information. I’m ashamed to be seen with you, and I’m a 29-year-old who still lives with his parents. Then again, so are you.”

“I think about you a lot more than I should probably admit, and it always makes me smile. And it’s not just because you’re pretty, though you are very pretty.”

“I love the fact that you wear thongs to class. There are a number of guys who would probably greatly appreciate it, if they were to notice. Which they haven’t. I admit I’m a little jealous of whomever you wear it for, but I appreciate it for its base beauty nonetheless. You vixen you.”

Wednesday, January 7, 2009

Driving in my beat-up car,I passed the house we used to own,We don’t live there anymore.You live up north now, all alone.

I walk along the many streets we used to walk together.Now I walk them by myself in cold and stormy weather.Remember that old gift shop with the angels on display?When I pass, I still see us inside, and we’re okay.

Driving with my dear old pops,He likes to point at all the shops,He tells me what they used to be,It doesn’t mean a thing to me.

Who cares if that old barber shop was once a hardware store?Who cares how much a movie cost in nineteen-sixty-four?Why must we always measure things by what they used to be?The past is dead and gone, and still, I want you here with me.

Monday, January 5, 2009

Place the gun shop and graveyard tiles on opposite sides of the manor house. The other two tiles are random. There is an extra spawning pit on any space inside the gun shop, and another on a space adjacent to the manor house. Locate two revolvers and two flare guns, and place them in the discard pile. Firearms may be retrieved, instead of searching, by any player who makes it inside the gun shop or the manor house. Players without a designated starting location begin the game inside the manor house. The game begins in the rain. (Locate the appropriate card from the zombie deck, and leave it in play until a hero can cancel it.)

Objectives:

Heroes: Survive until dawn

Zombies: Kill 4 heroes

Turn Order:

Zombies

a.Draw zombie cards (hand limit 4)

b.Zombies shoot

a.All spawned zombies have guns, which they cannot lose.

b.Zombies’ guns are treated as revolvers, but only hit heroes on 5+.

c.Zombie heroes only have whatever guns they died holding. They also keep any other bonuses they had before becoming zombies.

c.Zombies move and/or attack

d.Zombies respawn automatically. (2D6)

Heroes

a.The conventional rules apply

Description:

Lock your door, turn on the light, and sign your life insurance, because the dead have risen, and they have guns. Gundead!

Place the manor house in the center of town. The outer four tiles are random. All three heroes begin the game together on the same edge of town, determined by a random D6 roll.

Objectives:

Heroes: Rescue 6 (of 8) townspeople from the manor house, and take them out of town. If time runs out, the heroes lose.

A townsperson accompanies a hero the moment that hero enters his/her space. There is no limit to how many townspeople can accompany a hero.

When a player moves off the edge of the board, all accompanying townspeople are saved. That player has left the game, but may still assist other players with any remaining hero cards in hand.

Zombies: Kill all the heroes, or 3 townspeople in the manor house.

If unaccompanied, townsfolk defend themselves as unarmed heroes with one hit point.

If an unaccompanied townsperson survives a zombie attack and is still under siege, on the hero turn, the players may move that townsperson two spaces in any direction they choose, (but obviously, not through walls or other zombies.) This movement can be used to join a hero.

When a zombie wounds a hero, the zombie player may choose to kill an accompanying townsperson instead, so watch out!

Respawning:

Heroes do not respawn. If all 3 heroes die, the game is over.

Zombies – The conventional rules apply.

Description:

It was three in the morning when they got the distress call. Something terrible had happened, and most of the town had died, but there were still some survivors.

“Help us,” came a frightened voice over the radio. “We’re holed up in the manor house in the middle of town. I don’t know how long we can hold them off.”

“Stay where you are,” came a determined voice from the other end. “There are only three of us, but we’re coming to save you.”